


Don’t Run and Hide (The ‘Where Words Fail’ Remix)

by aralias



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, M/M, Post-Book 1: Carry On, Remix, Truth Spells
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:54:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24821143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aralias/pseuds/aralias
Summary: Baz and Simon aren't talking to each other about the things that really matter; Baz and Niall aren't talking to each other at all.Life isn't how Baz thought it would be and he doesn't know what to do to make it better. Niall might do.
Relationships: Background Dev/Niall - Relationship, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Niall, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 40
Kudos: 131
Collections: Carry On Remix





	Don’t Run and Hide (The ‘Where Words Fail’ Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BazzyBelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BazzyBelle/gifts).
  * Inspired by [If I Fell In Love With You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21166895) by [BazzyBelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BazzyBelle/pseuds/BazzyBelle). 



> The fic this is based on is lovely and warm - you should definitely read it first. One of the things I did to it in my remix is move the action forward 7 months, taking the events closer to where Simon and Baz are at the beginning of 'Wayward Son'. That means it's also much angstier. 
> 
> I've definitely been influenced by KrisRix's [Three-Chord Progression](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1645438) (in general, but in this fic especially), particularly the 'because we match' conversation.
> 
> The beard is from the original. I come down against it in this fic, but I'm actually a fan. 
> 
> Enjoy.

It wasn’t easy to convince Niall to let me use his father’s recording studio. It turns out he no longer consider us to be friends. He sent me a string of texts in response to my request for assistance – none of them flattering, all of them on the same theme – ending with:

_\- That’s what happens when you lie to someone for 7 years and then ignore them_

Not ideal.

After I got that message, I texted Dev – who I know is _also_ angry with me, but less angry than Niall is. He’s also my cousin, which means I’ve seen Dev at various family things over the last year. We’ve talked.

Thanks to those interactions, I know that he and Niall are dating. (Which I don’t hold against either of them _._ Even though no one ever told me they were interested in each other during school. And even though, it might have been easier to come out to either of them about Simon if I’d known I wasn’t the only queer in Watford who wasn’t a pixie.) (Or _dating_ a pixie.)

I also know that Dev really doesn’t want to go to Mordelia’s birthday celebration next week. (And given that it’s going to be a party full of nine-year-old girls, I can’t say I blame him for that either.) That meant I had leverage.

 _\- Please convince your boyfriend to help me.  
_ _\- In exchange, I’ll cover for you at Mordi’s thing. Say you’ve got food poisoning, etc._

I didn’t get a reply from Dev. Instead another message came from Niall:

_\- Don’t try and use Dev against me, dickhead_

Obviously, I told him that I’d use whatever I thought would work. And that I was extremely single-minded _and_ unscrupulous, so he might as well give up while I was only utilising _Dev._

 _\- And you wonder why we’re not friends anymore,_ Niall wrote back.

Which hurt, because it’s not as if I ever _meant_ to ignore him.

And anyway, they started it. Him and Dev. At Watford. At a time where I really could have used friends. (And not in the way I’m currently trying to use either of them. I could have used friends because my boyfriend was off somewhere out of sight, possibly having a nervous breakdown; Bunce – my only serious academic rival and only other friend – had dropped out of school; and I’d recently found out my mother was murdered by my former headmaster. It might have been nice to have someone to talk about some of it with.) (Not that I would have done, I expect. But I would’ve liked to have the option.) Then, after we left Watford, I meant to keep in touch, but there was so much on. Just starting university would have been distracting enough, but there’s also Simon to think about.

Simon who is _still_ constantly on the edge of a nervous breakdown.

Simon who last night shouted at me that it was easy for me to say that magic had never defined _him_ , because I still had it.

_“You’re still a magician and a vampire. So, what the fuck do you know about it, Baz?”_

_Nothing,_ I didn’t say. _Because you don’t tell me anything._

And I don’t ask.

It’s not that Simon needs me to be around all the time. Or perhaps he does. (I don’t know what he needs, since he never tells me.) But I want to be there for him. In case it helps.

In case – I don’t know. In case it makes a difference.

And there are still good days. Lots of them. Days when Simon smiles. Days when he’s funny – when we laugh. Days when I’m fairly sure he _does_ want me around. If I’m not there, I might miss them.

Last night obviously wasn’t one of those days. But at least he apologised afterwards. That’s something.

That fight, and our continued failure to communicate through traditional means (actually talking to each other, for example), was what inspired this idea. I’m not saying it’s the best plan I’ve ever come up with (though it’s not the worst, either, unfortunately). But it feels like I’m doing something. And I need Niall – or at least, his father’s recording studio – in order to do it. That’s why I pushed him, even though I knew he didn’t want to. 

Also, I don’t _want_ not to be friends with Niall. He’s been part of my life since I was eleven. He _was_ my best friend – apart from Simon. I thought he still was.

Anyway, eventually he agreed to do what I wanted. (Although I don’t know if that was a result of my threats to sign him up to a sex-hotline service if he didn’t; or because I used the words ‘please’ _and_ ‘sorry’ in the same text.) Now, we’re in the same building as each other for the first time in months.

Or at least, I think we are.

I haven’t actually _seen_ Niall since he let me in through the front. (The beard took him by surprise, I think. Which is fair enough. Niall’s eyes surprised _me_ – they’re brown again, rather than blue. I suppose we’ve both changed since Watford.) I’m in a box with padded walls; he’s out in the control room. Fiddling with the levels and being resentful.

There’s definitely a part of me (the same part that has never really managed to get over the trauma of what happened at the start of eighth year) that wonders whether Niall’s walked off. Whether I’m stuck here, just listening his recorded voice through my headset, and he’s left me here. I’d consider it – if I thought he’d genuinely get anything out of it.

As it is, I’m trying to focus on my playing.

It’s easier than it might have been – playing the violin has always calmed the annoying parts of my brain that want me to get upset about things. It helps me focus. Right now, I’m focusing on Simon. How this song (The Beatles, _If I Fell_ – a lesser-known classic) says everything we aren’t saying to each other.

Although perhaps it’s just that every song about heartache sounds like how I still feel about Simon Snow. (Or every song – I’ve never been able to tell. Almost everything reminds me of Simon, anyway.)

I’ve written a new arrangement for him. Something slower. More haunting. As I play it, I think about Simon. Holding him in the Weeping Tower as he cried over the Mage. How I tried to hold him last night and how he said he was tired and shook me off.

The song ends.

“You know,” Niall’s voice says over the intercom, “I’ve never actually heard you play before.”

That’s true. I don’t generally play for other people. I play for my stepmother, but only because she literally walks into the library while I’m practicing and refuses to leave. And I’ve played for Snow before – but only in the sense that I knew he was sitting outside the balcony while I practiced, because I could hear him breathing.

“You’re good,” Niall says (grudgingly, I think).

I nod. Then I realise Niall can’t see me.

“Yes.”

“Fucking depressing, though,” Niall says. “I thought you and Snow were happy.”

“We are,” I say. Which is a lie. “Mostly.” Less of a lie. “ _I_ am, anyway.”

Because I get to be with him, in whatever form that takes. I’d be happy with much less.

“No offense,” Niall says. “But you don’t look it. _Or_ sound it.”

I roll my eyes. “Look. Shall we start recording again?” I’ll need more than one song to play during the evening; it’s not just that I don’t want to talk about this.

But Niall obviously isn’t going to let it go.

“Being with the Chosen One isn’t love’s young dream, then?”

“He’s depressed,” I say. “He lost his magic and now he thinks he’s worthless.”

"And isn’t he?”

“Clearly not.” I’m gritting my teeth. “That is, in fact, what _this_ is all about.”

I’ve already explained the plan to Niall. How I’m planning on cooking for Simon, surrounding him with candles (that I definitely _won’t_ let him see me light – for some reason he’s paranoid about me and fire) and try and get him to dance with me to music I recorded for him.

I want him to see that he’s someone worth putting in effort for – something precious few of the other people in his life have ever managed.

More than that, I just want him to be happy. I think food and dancing might make Simon happy. It’s worked before. 

Niall still sounds unconvinced. “I don’t know, Baz. It seems a bit contrived.”

Which is one of hell of a condemnation coming from the man who uncomplainingly helped me with my plan to spell every mirror in Watford to reflect everyone _except_ Simon Snow. (So that Simon would think that that _he’d_ turned into a vampire.) (Very funny, at the time.)

“Why don’t you just tell him how you feel?”

“Because I _have,”_ I snap. “And he doesn’t believe me.”

Probably because I’ve spent most of our life together so far lying to him – lying about how I really felt. Lying about being a vampire. About trying to kill him. Everything, in fact. I barely spoke a true word to him in seven years.

So yes. I _can_ see why he wouldn’t trust me, but things are different now. _He_ told me they were different now. And they are. And I’m trying. With whatever words I can manage. With my actions. I _am_ trying to tell him that I love him, every day. And that I love him because he’s still the best person I’ve ever met.

Someone else could probably do it better – someone who didn’t have our history, someone who was better at talking about their feelings or who’d ever been in a relationship before – but Simon is mine. And he definitely isn’t getting rid of me. Which means I have to make it work. Somehow. And I will.

It’s just.

Hard.

I didn’t think it would be like this.

“I need to get some air,” I tell Niall – because the walls of the recording booth suddenly feel more like a coffin than I can handle right now. (Are they getting closer? They feel like they might be getting closer.) I pull the headset off and push my way out, past Niall and out through the fire escape door. Which fortunately doesn’t seem to be attached to an alarm

After a few moments, he joins me, leaning against the external wall. Offers me a cigarette as he lights his own.

I decline.

“Simon keeps pointing out they might kill me. That rather takes the fun out of it.”

“Lung cancer, eh?” Niall says wryly.

I shake my head. “Vampire.”

Niall looks at me in surprise. Not because he didn’t know. (I wouldn’t have told him if he didn’t know. Both he and Dev have known for years. They wouldn’t have been half so good at not talking about it if they hadn’t known.) Niall’s surprised because I’ve never actually _said_ it out loud before. I’ve never admitted it.

But Simon Snow comes with me sometimes when I go hunting, and I don’t cover my fangs when we eat together – even when Bunce is there too – because I know he’s seen them. I’ve essentially stopped pretending I’m not a vampire when I’m with Simon and Bunce. Even if Niall hates me, we were friends for almost a decade. I can do him the same courtesy.

“Bummer,” Niall says eventually. He takes another long, thoughtful drag on his cigarette. “What _does_ Snow still allow you to do, then?”

“It’s not like that.”

Niall snorts.

“It _isn’t_ ,” I say – insistently because I want Niall to know this. To know that Simon is the best thing that’s ever happened to me, not another person trying to make me into something I’m not. “I gave up smoking, which could kill me, because I don’t want to die. I want to be alive. For him. _With_ him.”

Niall’s face is a picture – of disgust.

“I know,” I agree because I’d probably be disgusted if I heard anyone else talking like this. About anyone who _wasn’t_ Simon, anyway.

“He’s turned you into a soppy twat.”

“To tell you the truth,” I say confidingly, “I think I always was one.”

Niall makes another face. His expression clearly says, _When?_

I suppose _vicious bastard_ might be a more accurate description of me at Watford. But back then, I thought I’d have to kill Simon or _be_ killed. I thought he hated me. I thought my family were going to be driven out of magic, so yes – I was vicious. I was terrified.

I’m not scared anymore.

Or if I am, at least I know I shouldn’t be. That there’s nothing to be afraid _of._ Except losing him, and I won’t. There’s just Simon, the boy I’m in love with. Who once told me he wanted to be my boyfriend, shortly before his entire world collapsed.

I’m not afraid of Simon; I’m enchanted by him.

Bewitched.

By his hair and his eyes. His moles. His strength and his determination. The way he still lights up sometimes when I enter the room.

I’m smiling just thinking about him – I really am soft.

“You should see him on his good days,” I tell Niall. “When it’s still like he can _do_ anything. Crowley, or even on the bad days. Because he’s still trying. Life dealt him a fucking awful hand. And he’s still trying. He’s brave – he’s still fighting …”

I trail off as I realise that – unasked – I’ve begun rhapsodising about my boyfriend. About the boy Niall and Dev and I spent most of our childhoods tormenting (and being tormented _by,_ to be fair. Simon always gave as good as he got).

Niall’s expression has changed – not disgust, or bemusement. I’m not sure what he’s thinking now.

Nothing good, probably.

It must be hard for him, I suppose. To adjust to being around whoever I am now. Just as I’ve never explicitly told him I’m a vampire before, I’ve never talked about how I really felt about Simon, either. One day it was just the start of spring term, Simon was gone, and I was snarling at Dev for going on about how Simon had never really belonged in Watford anyway.

In fact, the only person I’ve ever actually spoken to about my feelings for Simon _is_ Simon. And I know I’m not even doing _that_ properly, even though it feels like my heart is constantly on my sleeve – staining my cuffs the deep, dirty red of overwhelming feeling.

But it isn’t easy. Telling someone you love them when they never say it back to you.

“How’s Dev?” I say in an attempt to change the subject.

Niall shakes his head. “Too late to pretend to care.” Which is fair.

Or at least, I can see why he’d think that, even though I _do_ actually care.

I could push it, but Niall’s already stubbing his cigarette out on the brick of the wall. And we still have three more songs to record.

Next up – _Into My Arms_. The first song Simon and I ever danced to. The first time I tried to tell him how much he meant to me. One of the clearest times. 

I nod.

* * *

I turn on the music after Simon’s finished eating.

It’s not that I don’t think he can concentrate on two things at once (although I’m sure I must’ve said that before) (because I’m a dick). But I didn’t want the music I spent all of yesterday recording to be background noise. I also wanted to dance with him while we listen to it, which even I couldn’t do while also eating a roast dinner.

The food went down well, I think. Simon was in a terrible mood when he got here. He often is when he comes straight to see me after therapy (I don’t know what he talks about while he’s there – obviously – I just know it must be bad) but he calmed down without me having to say anything. And he seemed genuinely pleased with what I’d made. He said it was good.

He let me hold his hand while we ate, even kissed the back of mine at one point. It made me bold enough to try kissing him properly after I’d sent all the dishes back to the kitchen to soak. It isn’t always a good idea – to try, if it’s a bad day – but it must not be a bad day, because he did. Allow it. He even allowed me to press myself into him. He even pushed one of his own hands up the back of my shirt, splaying his warm palm over the bones of my spine, his tail wrapped around my wrist.

“I should cook for you more often, if this is the reception,” I tell him now as I cast a quick spell in the direction of my iPhone. _If I Fell_ starts playing.

“Maybe you should,” Simon agrees. He’s smiling, even though he doesn’t always like it when I use magic in front of him. 

It’s going well, then.

“This is you?” he says, jerking his head towards the iPhone. He grins wider when I nod back.

I don’t even have to tell him that we’re dancing – I just rest one of my hands on his shoulders and press my forehead into his and we sway.

Then he jerks back. “Merlin. It’s not your birthday, is it?”

It’s April, and my birthday is in February. Simon _did_ actually forget it, but I also didn’t remind him. Anyway, it was months ago. I don’t mind.

I shake my head.

“Valentine’s Day?”

“Snow, it’s April.”

“Then why are you doing all this?”

 _Because I wanted to,_ I don’t say.

_Because I wanted to do something nice for you._

Fuck. I could tell _Niall_ what this was. I could tell Niall the truth even though I _knew_ he was angry with me.

But if I tell Simon he might get defensive. Upset, because he hasn’t done anything for me. (He has. Just him being here – holding me – is a gift). He might think I want something, that this whole evening is my attempt to coax him into bed when he’s made it clear he needs time, that he isn’t ready.

It isn’t.

After the last time – after he told me I was pushing him – I've hardly dared to touch him without him touching me first. I haven’t asked. I haven’t told him I want anything more than this.

“Because I like cooking,” I tell him. _For you._

Fortunately Simon takes me at my word, or seems to. He smiles back.

“Luckily, I like eating.”

“We match,” I joke.

Simon’s smile tightens at that. Which means I’ve got it wrong somehow ( _How?_ I think. _Tell me. I can’t fix what I’ve done if I don’t know what it is)._ It isn’t enough to push him away, though.

As the song moves into the final chorus, he even leans against me. Resting his weight against me. Resting his face against mine. (At this point, I realise the beard is a mistake, since I can’t really feel his skin against mine. But if that’s the only problem, I can handle it. I’ll shave it off, tomorrow.)

I think about telling him that I love him.

I think about asking him about what happened at therapy today. (I don’t even know if it was _bad_ bad – or just bad. Everyday bad.) I think about asking him what’s wrong.

I don’t.

I don’t say anything, and he doesn’t leave. That’s enough.

The music changes.

_Into My Arms._

Snow’s grip on my hand tightens, so I know he recognises it. Remembers the last time we danced to this song

I wonder what he thinks about that, now. It was one of the most important nights of my life. Simon choosing to come back to Watford – a place that had hurt him – for me. Simon choosing to dance with me, even though everyone was looking at us. Even though he doesn’t like dancing. (And still can’t dance – he’s stepped on my foot twice today already.)

Simon kissing me when I told him I’d chosen him – that I would always choose him. As though he believed me. As though it was all going to be all right if we gave it enough time.

When I played this song in the recording booth, yesterday, I was thinking about all of this. The way dancing with Simon made me feel. The way even those small acts of bravery made me ache for him. How I still ache for him.

I’m thinking about it again, now, of course – I don’t think I could stop myself.

Simon in a well-fitted suit.

Simon’s mouth on mine.

Simon letting me choose him – for a while, at least.

How much hope I felt, then. How much I _still_ hope.

“ _Baz_ ,” the Simon in my arms says.

He sounds pained – I must be holding him too tightly. I must have allowed my vampire strength and my desire to hold Simon – cling onto him – to take over. But I’m not. I’m barely holding him at all.

I pull back. His face is definitely troubled.

“Snow?”

“Can you feel that?”

I frown.

I’m not sure what he’s talking about. I can’t feel anything unusual. A breeze through the open window. Simon’s tail wrapped around my arm, his hand on my waist, his hand in my hand. The sense that everything is fleeting, and Simon is slipping away from me. The joy of loving him – and the pain that comes with it. (Nothing out of the ordinary, then.)

I raise an eyebrow as Simon stares at me.

He brings a hand to my cheek. “Baz,” he says. “Merlin. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You’re _not_ losing me.”

I don’t know why he’s comforting me.

I must look afraid. It’s not what I’m going for (I thought I’d hit sardonic confusion, but I must off by some significant margin.) Somehow Simon can tell what I’m really feeling. I’m panicking – and Simon can tell. Which _should_ make me panic even more – it _would,_ normally. I hate being caught out, even over small things. And this is important. I don’t want Simon to know he’s hurt me. Because _he’s_ the one who’s actually hurt. And I have no right to feel this way.

But strangely the panic is dulled. It's there - it's _definitely_ there – just buried, under other emotions. Emotions that feel like they belong to a different time. The grief and wonder of dancing with Simon, and how brave he is.

“I’m not as brave as you think I am,” Simon says wretchedly. “If I was, I’d be able to deal with all of this so much better.”

It's so much like what I’m thinking, so _exactly_ like what I was thinking in fact, that I'm finally able to work out what's happened. (Or rather _who_ happened, even if I don’t know _why_ he did it. As revenge, it’s creative – but possibly excessive. All I did was fall in love with the wrong person and forget to answer a few texts.) 

It’s Niall.

He must have cast something yesterday as I was playing. ( **Where words fail, music speaks** , I imagine. Andersen. It has the nightmarish, fairytale quality of wish fulfilment about it.) And now all of this – the tangled, wretched, overwhelming mess of too-much feeling – has been captured along with the sound of my violin, and I’m _playing_ it for Simon.

The full horror of my situation keeps trying to work its way up through my heart. Into my throat. Fortunately (unfortunately?), whatever I _should_ be feeling keeps getting drowned out by the pathetic longing on the recording.

That’s why it takes me a moment to react. To try and pull away – because everything in me wants to hold on. 

Simon doesn’t let go, though, even when I do try. His tail tightens around my wrist. And know I’m stronger, that I could wrench myself free. Stop the music. Stop whatever’s happening from happening. But perhaps it’s already too late.

“Simon,” I say. I’m not looking at him anymore. I can’t. I’ve turned my head away. “Please.”

This song is so fucking slow. I thought I _liked_ that about it, but it feels like it’s been playing for hours, rather than minutes – and that there are still hours to go. We’re not even on the second verse yet.

“Let me turn it off,” I say.

“Okay. If you want.”

I nod and unclasp our hands.

“I’d prefer to listen to it, though,” Simon says before I can reach my phone. (He doesn’t sound like he’s fucking with me – or pitying me – but it's hard to tell.) “If you’re all right with it."

I don’t think I _am_ all right with it.

I’d rather not _have_ my own emotions; let alone expose them for Simon to listen to. I also don’t remember if it’s going to get worse. (I don’t remember thinking about sex at all, while I was playing this. _Into My Arms_ is spiritual – rather than randy. But it’s certainly possible that I did, since I think about sex on a fairly regular basis.)

But Simon doesn’t often ask me for things. He doesn’t usually tell me what he wants.

So, I let it play out. I let all of it play out.

There isn’t anything worse than we’ve already heard, thank Crowley. Just a few more mournful phrases, a few more swoops and drops in my stomach. Simon holds my hand throughout.

Then it’s over.

Niall seems to have left the next track mercifully unspelled. It’s just the Mountain Goats.

“I didn’t put that on there,” I tell Simon (I’m still not looking at him). “I didn’t even _know_ it was there. It was Niall.”

“But it’s how you really feel.”

I nod. And then, because that seems a bit inadequate, I clear my throat. “I’m sorry. I never meant to burden you with it.”

“You didn’t,” Simon says.

I’m not sure what that means. Whether it just means that _I_ wasn’t the one to burden him with him. (Which is true – it was Niall. Fucking Judas). Perhaps it doesn’t matter.

Simon’s still talking.

“My therapist has been saying I should talk to you from the start. She said it would make me feel better. To have it out.”

 _So,_ I think. _This is it. This is where he dumps me._ I should have expected it.

Except that Simon told me I wasn’t losing him only a few minutes ago. He promised. 

So, I let myself look back at him. 

Simon’s trying to smile, a bit damply. (How long has been crying for? I didn’t even notice.) His blue eyes are bright. 

“Maybe she should have told me to learn the guitar or something,” he says. “Then we could have cast that spell. And I wouldn’t have to tell you.”

He hates being spelled. (I don’t point it out). I wait. Simon shuts his eyes.

“I’m struggling.”

He says it like it’s a secret that he’s been holding onto. Something that’s been weighing him down. Rather than the truth that Bunce and I look in the face every time we come home to find Simon still in the same position on the sofa.

“I know,” I tell him.

He nods. “That’s the worst part,” he says quietly. “That you have to see me like this. You and Penny. That you have to put up with me.”

I open my mouth to tell him that I’m not _putting up_ with him, but as much as I want to reassure him, I also don’t want to distract Simon now he’s actually telling me whatever this is. Even if it’s wrong. Even if he couldn’t be more wrong.

“I was talking about this in therapy today,” he says. “How much I hate ruining your life. Because you’re like this amazing, smart, gorgeous vampire magician. You could have anyone. And instead you’re stuck with me and we don’t match anymore.”

So that was it.

I wish he’d told me. I’ve been pretending not to fall apart because I thought it would help him. I didn’t realise that might be one of the things that was pushing him away.

“I actually told her today that I knew you were going to break up with me,” Simon says. “But you just were too noble to do it right away.”

“I’m _not_ going to break up with you,” I say firmly, because I can’t let that go, even if I’m trying to give him space. I’m squeezing his hand between both of mine, willing him to hear it. “I am _never_ going to break up with you, Simon. Unless you want me to. And even then, I’m not entirely sure I’d be able to do it.”

It’s not the first time I’ve told him this. I told him at the leavers ball. And I’ve told him every day since, however I can.

But it is the first time that I see him nod after I say it. That I see him _believe_ it.

“I’m not going to break up with you either,” he tells me. “I don’t want to.”

I grip his hand harder. “You don’t have to.”

“I thought I did.” Simon’s voice is shaking. “I thought I had to set you free. But everything you felt while you were playing, I feel that too. I love you. I don’t want to lose you.”

I’m not at my best right now. The emotional toll of the past few minutes (which seems incredible – that it’s only been a few minutes, but we’re still only on the third fucking song) has made me stupid. Exhausted. I’m not sure that I really heard what I think I heard. I raise my eyebrows.

“Did you just …?”

“Yeah,” Simon says. And he’s smiling again. Like the sun has come out. “Yeah. That’s the other thing my therapist said I should tell you.”

* * *

After that, I told Simon I loved him too. (Out loud. Using the actual words.) (It was surprisingly easy. Because Simon had already used them. Because I knew he already knew.) And he asked if he could kiss me. I told him he didn’t need to ask, and he surged into my space, pulling me in closer.

We kissed through the rest of the tracks I’d recorded – and into a repetition of _If I Fell_ as the playlist cycled round to the beginning again. Although I did manage to pull away before _Into My Arms_ started again. 

_“I should probably go,”_ Simon said as I switched the music off.

I thought about telling him that he didn’t have to. And then I _did_ tell him.

_“You should stay.”_

He kissed me again. _“I told Penny I’d be back tonight. And none of my stuff's here. But you should keep asking.”_

I said I would.

Once Simon has gone (once I’ve kissed him again and sent him off with a packet of tonight’s leftovers for lunch tomorrow, once I’ve waved to him out the window as he walks towards the Tube), I text Niall.

_\- You absolute and complete dick._

I’m loading the dishwasher when his reply comes through. It doesn’t take long. (Niall must have known I’d listen to the song at some point today, he’d be expecting something.) It’s a string of laughing emojis. Absolute dick.

After a few seconds, this is followed by another message that at least has some actual words.

_\- Did you and Snow break up, then?_

I dry my hands on my jeans and type back.

 _\- We didn’t._  
_\- And we won’t.  
_ _\- You and I on the other hand …_

The dots at the bottom of the screen flicker as Niall writes his reply.

_\- You don’t want to try and win me back after I singlehandedly fixed your relationship??_

I start typing a response that makes it clear that Niall’s intervention was both unasked for and unwanted. That he had no way of knowing this would fix _anything,_ rather than making it worse _._ And that he didn’t save my relationship singlehandedly. (If anyone did that, it was Simon, although I think both of us had something to do with it in the end.)

I don’t even know if my relationship _is_ saved, but it’s less broken than it was.

And Niall did help with that. A bit. (Even if it was _entirely_ unethical.)

And I suppose, if tonight has taught me anything (apart from that I should really double-check any gift I’m going to give to Simon _before_ giving it to him, particularly if I ask anyone else to help me with it), it’s that it’s worth telling people how you feel about them. Saying things out loud, rather than leaving them poetically unsaid.

Niall picks up after only a single ring.

“What?”

“I want us to be friends again,” I tell him. “Tell me how I can win you back.”

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is marked as AU Canon Diversion - by which I mean, because these events happened, 'Wayward Son' won't. Things will get better.
> 
> I've got some [behind the scenes stuff on my Tumblr](https://captain-aralias.tumblr.com/post/622372155785609217/creators-give-a-behind-the-scenes-look-at-one), including the beginning of a completely different remix of a completely different fic.


End file.
